


The Devil's Swing

by KDblack



Series: they say someone killed the radio star [2]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Internalized Acephobia, Lucifer's A+ parenting, M/M, Other, certainly not Alastor, deliberate pushing of an ace person's boundaries, is this gen or pre-slash, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 02:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21486769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDblack/pseuds/KDblack
Summary: Somehow, you expected the devil to be... less. You were never exactly faithful, but you sat through enough sermons to have an idea of what he was supposed to be like. Big, red, and utterly terrifying, but ultimately made of smoke and bluster. There are too many songs about farmboys and Irishmen outwitting the devil for anyone to truly be afraid of the beast, or so you used to think.That was before he stole the music right out of your head.(Shortly after Alastor's descent into hell, he draws the attention of a dangerous man. The devil has a point to make. And now, he has Alastor.)
Relationships: Alastor & Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: they say someone killed the radio star [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548754
Comments: 28
Kudos: 250





	The Devil's Swing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [That one artist on Pixiv](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=That+one+artist+on+Pixiv).

“They say the devil has all the best tunes, but I do believe you're infringing on my territory. What did you call this? Swing? Nice. It's no polka, of course, but still – catchy.”

Somehow, you expected the devil to be... less. You were never exactly faithful, but you sat through enough sermons to have an idea of what he was supposed to be like. Big, red, and utterly terrifying, but ultimately made of smoke and bluster. There are too many songs about farmboys and Irishmen outwitting the devil for anyone to truly be afraid of the beast, or so you used to think. 

That was before he stole the music right out of your head.

“Don't suppose you've got any songs about me?” he asks, a shark-toothed grin curling lazily over his bone-white face. “No? Too bad. It's always a gas to see what heaven's saying about me behind my back. There were some lovely hymns written during the Spanish Inquisition. Let me tell you, nothing turns folks to Satanism quite like a crusade.”

Lucifer is not a large man. Bigger around than you, but that's not exactly an accomplishment – you left most of your muscle mass behind on Earth. He wears antique suits even whiter than his skin and a hat which is frankly laughable. In one hand, he's idly twirling an apple on a stick to a rhythm you can no longer hear. The other hand is around your shoulders, holding you effortlessly in place. It burns into your neck like a brand.

There's a difference between a smile and a rictus grin. Any corpse can hold a grimace. Smiling through hardship is the armour of a strong individual. Having the grin freeze on your face makes your armour little more than paper-mache. A see-through mask is nothing but a show of weakness. And you cannot afford to be weak. But the music in your head is gone, and no static clings to your thoughts. Your shadow sits limp on the floor. A minute ago, you were strolling down a bloodsoaked alleyway, upright, alone, and wreathed in crackling radio tunes. Then the world greyed out. Fog swallowed up your signals. From within the haze, you saw yourself stumble. 

When you blinked, you were no longer in the alley. Nor were you upright. You lay in an ornate room you've never seen before, with decor ranging from 'ostentatious' to 'constructed from glistening viscera', sprawled across the devil's lap. And he certainly is the devil. You've seen him on the picture show, bloodstained, pleasantly bored, and dismissed him as odd but harmless. You were a fool.

Black, black eyes flick down. If your heart still worked, it would surely burst in your chest. “You've been awfully quiet, Radio Demon. No comments for the audience?”

“My apologies, your majesty,” you say. The words come out smooth, velvety, inviting. You'd almost forgotten what you sounded like without the static. “Your arrival was rather striking! I'm afraid I found myself quite overcome.”

The stick clangs softly as he sets it to lean against his throne. “Normally, I'd gut you for that kind of shameless sycophancy. But you mean it, don't you? Look at you, you're terrified of me.” A hand, now free, settles on your high. “Poor thing.”

Sickness starts pooling in your gut. You cross your legs as quickly and gracefully as you can. He lets you, his amusement ratcheting up another notch. 

“Don't fret,” he says, in the kind of soothing tone one might use to calm a dog. “I didn't bring you here for _that_.”

How kind of him to clarify! What a gentleman. You could just rip that hand right off his wrist and eat it.

Your smile widens. “Well, I would certainly hope not. The way you're going about it would be quite disappointing! Positively cliche. But I must wonder why, exactly, you brought me in, if not for... _that_.”

“Isn't it obvious?” he asks, eyes wide with mock surprise.

No, you think, fighting to keep from squirming in his grip. It really, really isn't.

He leans in close. Too close. You can feel his heat on your face. “To scope out the competition.”

A laugh gets caught and dies in your throat. Oh dear. He's serious. “That's quite flattering! What have I done to deserve such attention?”

“Exist.” The hand in your hair begins absently petting you. It should be an intimate gesture. It isn't. “You must have noticed it by now.”

“I've noticed quite a few things,” you say with all the cheer you can muster, “but I'm afraid I'm still rather new at this!” Your ears want to twitch away from his fingers, but you force them to stay still. “If you could be a bit more specific, your majesty?”

“They're weak,” he says bluntly. “They're all weak. Even the big names, the ones who've been here for centuries, carving their names into the very fabric of hell – demons made from mortal souls are, as a rule, disappointing. Wouldn't you agree?”

...ah. So you're talking about this. You wriggle in his lap, trying not to press yourself against anything delicate, and think about your first few weeks in hell. The cruel streets. The hungry eyes. An audience full of toothy smiles which always, always drop when things stop going their way.

“I had noticed,” you admit. “Threw me off more than a little in the beginning! I mean, what was the point of me ending up a hunted animal if all the hunters were incompetent? That's not irony. It's just sad.”

“Sometimes the standard approach to ironic punishments simply falls flat.” Lucifer sighs, sulphurous breath passing over the side of your face. He grins wider when you cough. “Hell just wasn't made for mortals. That's the sad truth of it.”

Well, that just makes no sense. But the devil is bent almost double over you, watching you through slitted eyes the colour of bone-deep bruises, _touching you_, so really, what does make sense these days? “And yet the place with is just overrun with them. My, how embarrassing! Whoever was in charge of that decision?”

“Not I, clearly.” He rolls his eyes theatrically. “No, dear old dad always knows what He's doing. Even when He's funnelling every soul that doesn't qualify for heaven right to my doorstep. Though really, given the amount of thought He put put into making sure they wouldn't dissolve on contact with the inferno, it does seem like He put some actual effort in. Pity it wasn't spent on making a system that's less... what's the word?” Lucifer drums his fingers on your thigh. Your tail twitches underneath you. “Ah, yes. _Broken_.”

“Few battle plans survive contact with the enemy.” Your smile is growing painful. Discomfort has hollowed out your bones. The only reason you haven't thrown your pride to the wind and made a getaway is that you're not sure you'd make it. Also, for all the unsettling familiarity in the devil's touch, there's nothing sexual there. Not really. Not yet.

“This one did, for the most part. Why do you think you have these charming appendages?” He stops petting you to give your ear a sharp tug. “Hell was made for demons first. Mortal souls came after. People tend to forget that. It's a shame. So many have tried to bend the rules, and they've all failed. Though really, what did they expect? You can't game the rules if you don't know what they are.”

You hum softly, a little non-committal noise that you half-expect to distort into static before it leaves your lips. In your experience, it's always been the rules you don't understand which are the easiest to bend. The only question is how filthy you'll feel after. You'd rather not bring that up in this company, though – it might give him ideas.

“The thing about mortals,” Lucifer says grandly, “is that there are a lot of them. Some would say too many. Numbers, at least, are always on their side. There will always be enough saints coming up on the fast track to heaven that our father who art half-assing it considers the whole species a success. I've seen some of them. Sweet, docile, obedient, happy to place all their uncertainties in the hands of the almighty.” 

A shudder runs through him and into you. Too close, too close, _too close– _

“Positively angelic. And then there's you.” His gaze lands on you like a guillotine. “Run through enough saints in human skin and you'll eventually pull a demon, won't you? Not one of the sinners crawling around there, sinking into the same old ruts. A real one. Tell me, Alastor, why are you here?” 

He says your name like he owns it. Your smile cuts open your whole face. “Because I belong here, I suppose. Wasn't born right. Had something loose in my head.”

“Exactly,” he purrs. “Everyone else? They're here because they were judged wanting by the man upstairs. This is their punishment. Do you feel punished, Alastor?” 

Do you feel punished? What an odd question. You think about thirty-three years spent twisting in on yourself, playing the man's man you never wanted to be, saying words fed to you by a culture that shifted like water. Sitting on your hands as a child, knuckles stinging, because you asked too many questions and your drawings scared teachers. Leaning into touch as an adult because flinching was weakness and lashing out was worse. Craving some connection, some honesty, some control you never found. An existence spent turning like a screw in a socket, tighter and tighter, until finally something snapped.

Lies. All lies. Not even enjoyable lies, spent like pennies in 1928, all for the sake of keeping up with a society you never agreed to join. Relationship dynamics you never consented to. A little collection of names, faces, bones – that was the only thing you could be honest with. You've experienced many things since your descent, some exceedingly unpleasant, and yet all of them have left you thrilled and laughing. A world made up of the very worst, all tearing chunks off each other, lying, cheating, stealing, screaming up at an uncaring god that _I didn't mean it, please, take me back, make me good again_. It's all so perfect you can't help but shiver.

For a moment, you think of your mother. What a sweet woman she was. If she'd known what you were, it would've broken her heart. You hope she doesn't mourn you. You wish you'd had the chance to kill her.

“I most certainly do not,” you tell the devil. “If I'd known what was waiting down here, I'd have made plans to visit sooner.”

“You would?” he echoes, delighted. “You would! If you'd ended up in heaven, you would've dug your way into hell with your own two hands, wouldn't you?”

For the first time since he showed up, your grin shows happiness as well as teeth. “I do believe I would have.”

He leans back against the chair, his gaze soft and sticky, like tar. “That would've been quite the sight. Can't say I'm unhappy you took the usual way, though. I've been looking for someone like you.”

Your ears twitch. “Is that so? Do share, your majesty.”

“My daughter,” he says, the mirth draining from the curve of his lips, “has an idea. It's a stupid idea, but it's hers, and she would rather be cremated and kept in a soup can for decades than give up on it.” There's a certain heaviness to his tone which implies he's speaking from experience. 

“Ah, children.” You shrug, half-trying to slide free. No dice. His hand clamps down like a brand on your leg. “What can you do with them?”

“Exactly.” He sighs again, blowing out a long plume of black smoke. “She doesn't belong down here, but what can I do? I can hardly send her topside. The things they do to young girls up there... though I suppose you'd know better than me, wouldn't you?”

“I'm afraid I wouldn't,” you say, almost apologetically. “My target audience was a bit older.”

“Is that so?” he asks idly. “Nevertheless, I must request your assistance, or the very least, your attention. I've been watching your progress. You have potential, Alastor. However you chose to use it, your name will echo in the underworld for decades to come – perhaps even centuries.” You open your mouth to deny it. He tugs on your ear again. “Ah-ah, don't say anything. If you try to play yourself down, I'll rip the lying tongue from your mouth.” 

Well, if he puts it like that.

“Dear Charlie's going to strike out on her own soon,” he says. “And when she does, you're going to be out there, established, terrifying, striking fear into the hearts of demonkind. I won't be so crass as to demand you watch her back – or, dad forbid, take care of her – but if you move against her, I will pluck every bone from your twitching, writhing, _leaking_ corpse by hand.” Each word is punctuated by another pull. By the end of the sentence, your ear feels it's been torn off. “Do I make myself clear?”

You grin up at him, sharp as any razor. “Clear as crystal, your majesty.”

The devil laughs gently and sets his burning hand back onto your hand. Claws graze your scalp. Your ear appreciates the rest. “What a quick learner you are.” He says it like a compliment, but his eyes are dark enough to drown in. “A hundred years from now, you'll be quite the sight.”

“I make no promises there. My only plan is to enjoy myself.”

He laughs and gives you one more scratch before letting go. “Somehow, I think that will be enough.”

All at once, the music is back. Bass, brass, strings. You slip free in a cloud of little pops and hisses, sliding smoothly into a mocking bow. A burst of feedback mark the gesture.

Strands of fluffy red float over your eyes as you speak, your voice once again layered and distorted. “Will that be all, your majesty?”

Lucifer laughs, something like fondness in his eyes. “Indeed it will. Mark my words, Alastor – you're going to be one hell of a sight.”

**Author's Note:**

> **VivziePop:** Alastor wouldn't be afraid of Lucifer, they have a mutual respect thing going on.  
**Me:** GEE, I WONDER HOW THAT HAPPENED.
> 
> Anyway, this is a possible explanation for why Alastor became so strong, so fast - a combination of 'mortal souls needing a power boost to survive in hell' and 'not being held back by any regrets or an innate desire for redemption'. There's always going to be someone who's happier in hell than they were outside it, after all.


End file.
